


The Sons We Offered

by jinlinli



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, POV Outsider, Period-Typical Homophobia, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-17
Updated: 2017-06-17
Packaged: 2018-11-15 02:03:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11220984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jinlinli/pseuds/jinlinli
Summary: It’s 1945, and Bucky has been discharged from the army.





	The Sons We Offered

The landlady doesn’t care what goes on as long as it isn’t booze. 

Lindy repeats this to every wayward soul who creeps in through the back door, the windows, hell, even the garbage chute. No one ever comes through the front door the first time. They think they don’t have the right to a little decency. No one respectable gives a damn about the perverts and the crazies. 

She says it again to the newest tenant, young with matted hair and covered with dirt and sweat. 

He responds, “Ma’am, the Prohibition ended over a decade ago.”

He seems a good sort. A little cocky, but he hasn’t tried to throw his weight around like some of the others had when they first arrived. Most see the small aging woman before they see the Colt tucked in her cozy. The young man spots it immediately and lets respect color his words.

But Lindy is not easily charmed.

“I watched my husband die because the government began poisoning his drinks, and my son can’t walk because he drank the wrong bottle of Jake.”

“Both the government and the bootleggers stopped doing those sorts of things ages ago.”

“I’m aware. No alcohol.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the young man says, smirking. He has a strong jaw and heavy-lidded eyes. Lindy thinks he must be quite the lady-killer under all the muck. 

Sometimes, the nurses at the asylum feel particularly merciful and send whomever catches their fancy to Lindy. A lot of crazies being locked up since the war started, she thinks. They’re a good sort—the ones who find their way to her doorstep, at least. They’ve never really given her trouble. Sometimes they scream at night, but she’s always been a deep sleeper. This one is probably one of Esther’s. She’s always had a soft spot for pretty young things. 

Lindy looks at his file. He shifts uneasily.

First, a name: James Buchanan Barnes, either fake, or his parents are unusually fond of presidents. 

A hometown: New York City, Brooklyn. 

Details of his family: a mother and a sister.

His military record. He’d been a sniper stationed with several units, moved around by his officers as they saw fit. An outstanding kill-record. Notes of an amiable personality that boosted morale wherever he went.

A couple of letters from his family. An odd addition, but one that some faceless secretary had deemed necessary. Both his sister and mother write with love but distance, chattering on for several pages about food rations, gossip, and whatever is showing on the newsreels that month. 

All mention a friend, Steve, with platitudes about his health endlessly repeated in new variations. The descriptions are often vague: blond and recklessly brave with a chip on his shoulder a mile-wide. The most recent letter reports that the friend had enlisted and shipped out to Basic.

All the paperwork for a dishonorable discharge. Lindy skims it carefully before glancing up at the fidgeting man. “Sexual psychopathy?” she asks.

It’s one of the many strange things the military likes to call queers. Sexual inversion is another. Lindy has even heard some of the doctors toss around a new term in the psychology exams at the enlistment offices. They ask over their clipboards, “Are you a homosexual?” but most of the recruits don’t even know what that means so they say no.

“He was your lover then,” Lindy says, indicating the letters. 

“Is that a problem?” James asks, chest puffed full of bravado, but they both know he has nowhere else to go. No one gives jobs or apartments to guys with sexual psychopathy on their records. “We weren’t in the same unit, so it shouldn’t have mattered.”

“No. Normally they don’t care as long as you’re a good soldier.” 

“I fell. Shouldn’t have survived but I did. Someone from a nearby village picked me up, but they couldn’t get in contact with anyone from the Allies until a month later. I spent another couple months unconscious in a London hospital before I woke up and well, this was waiting for me.” James tugs a letter from his pocket. Lindy recognizes the elaborate loops of Spencerian script: his mother’s hand. His sister is a product of her schooling and writes entirely with the Palmer method. The letter is folded around another piece of paper: a telegram. She stiffens at the sight of it. Four months ago, Lindy received an almost identical one with her second son’s name on it. Every night, the dry but sympathetic, “The Secretary of War desires me to extend his deepest regret…” repeats endlessly in her mind. 

“I see.” Lindy looks at the letter, the telegram, and the way James has begun to slowly curl in on himself. Some soldiers never quite get the hang of grief. The army has no use for broken men.

“The last time I saw him was the night before I shipped out after basic, and I was too goddamn wrapped up in keeping two dames entertained for the night to appreciate it. After he—well, I didn’t care so much about not getting caught then,” he says, as if he still has to explain himself to her. “I’ll just see myself out.” And Lindy realizes her mind has drifted to her own telegram sitting on her bedside table.

“There’s an empty room on the second floor. It’s yours if you want it.”

James stops at the doorway and stares at her incredulously. “Really? You’d let a,” he grimaces, “sexual psychopath stay in your building?”

Lindy stands and walks over to him, gently prying the telegram from his hands. The edges are worn, and she imagines him rubbing the ink between his fingers as if he’s trying to erase the words from existence. 

“You’d think a person could get used to losing people if they had enough practice. I thought I’d gotten real good at it after my husband and then my first son. But then my second son took a bullet to the neck, and I learned that I hadn’t gotten used to it at all.” Lindy stops and looks James. He has light, honest eyes. “Do you miss him?”

“Yeah. I do,” James says.

“Then stay. Rebuild your life. The grief will never fully pass, but you’ll learn to bear it in time.”

He nods, takes a breath. “I will.” 

Lindy pretends she doesn’t hear his voice shaking.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fic that's been sitting in my folders for over a year now, and it's about damn time that I got around to actually posting it. I'm playing fast and loose with historical accuracy here, folks. Thanks!
> 
> And here's my [tumblr](jinlinli.tumblr.com) if you'd like to flail.


End file.
